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The walk home from Babe’s is silent, and maybe that’s why Grace gently guides Frankie into the living room instead of vanishing upstairs to the safety of her room. Silence around Frankie is a rarity—months ago, she would have welcomed it and not thought twice about the reason.
Grace makes herself a fortifying martini, and pours Frankie a glass of her latest juice find from Trader Joe’s, some green sludge that could probably double as a beauty mask. She offers the juice to Frankie, then sets it on the coffee table when Frankie doesn’t move.
Exhaustion pours off Frankie, diminishing her usual spark. Grace doesn’t know what to do or say; she hates being helpless and not knowing. Instinct tells her to leave Frankie alone, to give her the privacy she would want—
(she doesn’t know how to care or love)
—Grace overrides her instinct and pulls Frankie close in a hug, the sort Babe gives. Gave. The sort of hug that made her feel alive, warm from the inside out, filled with care and love. “You’re a good friend,” she says, awkwardly patting Frankie’s back.
“Then why does it hurt so much?” Frankie’s sigh turns into hiccuping sobs. “She wanted it, but…”
“You helped Babe win. Helped her fly.” Grace hugs Frankie tighter. They grieve together, Frankie’s anguish undoing the cork Grace put on her own tears. For once, Grace doesn’t care that her shirt is wet, or that her mascara is running.
This is how unconditional love starts.